


Good Initiative, Bad Judgement

by Linguam



Series: Speed, Surprise, and Violence of Action [2]
Category: The Musketeers
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Military AU, Stupidity, so much stupidity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:56:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguam/pseuds/Linguam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Gaiety is often the reckless ripples over depths of despair." - Edwin Hubbell Chapin</em><br/> </p><p> </p><p>[Or: The brash and sometimes ill-advised exploits of all our favorite marksman]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catch Me If You Can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuePokorny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/gifts), [LadyCavil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCavil/gifts), [Nomina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomina/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Good Initiative, Bad Judgement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7492878) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> And the adventures of our present time armed forces group continues! I hope you're all ready for this next installment (I had *tons* of fun writing them all). No warnings for this one!
> 
> I am dedicating this first story to SuePokorny, one of the writers who, with her many wonderful stories, has helped see me through this hideously long hiatus. I hope you like it, hon.
> 
> All of you, enjoy!

”Let me tell you how this is going to work,” the man shouts in heavily accented English, gesturing the revolver between Porthos and Athos. “You two will stay over there with your hands where I can see them, and your friend here…” He gives Aramis a none too gentle shove where he is lying crumbled on the floor, brown eyes blinking dazedly, and Porthos growls, although the sound is lost in the roar of the wind, “--will remove his parachute and give it to me. As grateful as I am for the ride, gentlemen, I really need to get going.”

He grins at them, as if he finds this situation hilarious.

“A plane can only fly itself so long without a pilot.”

They are gonna get some serious shit for this, Porthos thinks, as he with mounting anger watches Aramis drag himself up into a sitting position – difficult to do in a moving C-130 under normal circumstances, and a real pain when concussed. He can already hear Treville holler at them, the Captain’s usual composure lost in the face of their “dereliction of duty”,

_“Someone **hijacked** your plane? How the **hell** could you let that happen!”_

Porthos really hopes that Athos can work his diplomatic tongue because honestly, he has no idea how they came to share a ride with the Syrian arms dealer Nizar al-Masry. Their mission had been a simple “retrieve intelligence run”, taking no more than 2 hours from start to finish and having nothing at all to do with the man in question. The day had been an easy one, without any sudden complications.

(There had been enemy fire sizzling past their ears the last hundred meters before they reached the C-130, but that’s really just part of the job.)

They made it inside, miraculously without a scratch, and the small plane took off. After close to half an hour of relative peacefulness – their pilot a local who could work an aircraft as effortlessly as Porthos could work any ground vehicle – the plane made a sharp dive, causing all three of them to hold on tighter to their straps. Exchanging quizzical looks, Aramis had gotten up and thumped on the door leading to the cockpit. When there was no answer, he tried the handle, but it didn’t budge. Frowning, he’d turned around – no doubt about to tell them the obvious: that it was locked – when the door had busted open and a vicious blow with the butt of a gun sent him sprawling to the floor.

Since then, al-Masry has moved closer to the back of the plane and the open ramp, half-kicking, half-dragging a disoriented Aramis in front of him.

And Porthos can tell that he is beginning to get frustrated.

“If I’m not out of here in thirty seconds,” their uninvited boarder growls at Aramis, all pretense of politeness gone, “your friend will paint the inside of this plane with his brain matter. I suggest that you get a move on.”

He makes a show of gesturing his gun directly at Porthos’ head.

Aramis glowers at him – the effect somewhat ruined by how he visibly struggles to maintain his balance as the Lockheed makes another unexpected dive. Athos swears beside him as their grip on the straps tighten, obviously thinking the same thing as Porthos is,

_This bird’ll go down on enemy soil if we don’t do something, and then we’ll **really** be in the shit._

Aramis seems to come to the same conclusion. He throws a quick look past the gun waving nut job – who has now moved away from him and is in the middle of trying to get Aramis’ parachute on – and out the open ramp. Something sparks in his eyes, something smug and just on the wrong side of crazy, and Porthos’ stomach plummets to the ground 3 500 feet below them.

Athos seems to be even further in his cognizance.

“Aramis…” he grounds out, with a minute but sharp shake of the head, but the sniper only smirks at him.

In hindsight, all Porthos will think is that he really should’ve seen it coming; after all, their three-man-team isn’t exactly known for their orthodox methods.

But right then and there, in that moment, he is one second too slow.

In one fluid motion, Aramis lunges forward, knocking both the gun and the parachute out of al-Masry’s grip, and the momentum of it, with nothing in their way to stop them moving forward, nothing for them to hold on to, sends them both tumbling down, off the ramp, and out into the open.

3 500 feet above ground.

Without a parachute.

“Shit,” Porthos breathes as he stares after them, momentarily floored, “fucking _shit!_ ”

“Don’t just stand there,” Athos shouts, already moving towards to the cockpit, no doubt to try and get control over their ride. “Get after the fucking idiot!”

Athos’ voice is like a whip, and Porthos all but throws himself out after the two men.

The fresh air hits his face and eyes with refreshing familiarity, the roar of the wind intense. He spots Aramis easily; although it had taken him less than five seconds to jump out after him, his teammate is already a good hundred feet below him. Porthos dives, steers his way towards Aramis’ sprawled out form. He doesn’t think about the Syrian, or how the man is currently free falling to his death – doesn’t even glance in his direction. 

This is one death he will lose no sleep over.

It seems like minutes passes before he finally reaches Aramis, though he knows it can’t be more than seconds. Aramis turns around when Porthos is mere inches from him, as if he somehow knows that Porthos is close.

The wind howls in his ears like a pack of wolfs, and Porthos reaches out both arms and drags Aramis to him, his hair an unruly mess that momentarily fills Porthos’ vision. Aramis flings his arms around Porthos’ neck, holds him tight, and somehow manages to get his legs around Porthos’ lower waist.

The ground is a rapidly approaching blur and Porthos knows that he needs to release the parachute or they’ll both turn into _mush_ , but the rational part of him is overruled by the intense instinct _not to let go of Aramis_ because he knows, Porthos _knows_ , that if he releases the parachute and Aramis isn’t able to hold on – because he’s ghostly pale and his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything but keeps blinking stupidly at Porthos as if wondering what he’s doing there and _what the hell are they doing!_ – then he’ll keep falling when Porthos is pulled back by the force of the parachute and Porthos won’t be able to reach him again.

It’s only one second of nauseating fear before Porthos crushes it and roars in Aramis’ ear, “Hold on!” He lets go, doesn’t allow himself to think but reaches for the releasers and _pulls_. They both jerk when the parachute is released and the brief appearance of air between them is enough for the panic to resurface in Porthos’ chest, but Aramis clings to him like a layer of extra skin – a layer of pale, slightly green skin.

Porthos bellows, “If you throw up on me I’ll fucking shake you off!” because that’s all he can think to say and Aramis gives a wan smile. His friend squeezes his eyes shut and rests his head on Porthos’ shoulder, no doubt trying to will the world to right itself.

Grateful for the arid Syrian landscape – and for the dusk that somewhat conceals their descent – Porthos steers them towards a small gap between two mountain hills, where they won’t be easily spotted by any possible passersby.

In the end, their landing isn’t the smoothest, but considering they manage it without breaking any bones, Porthos isn’t complaining. Aramis lets go of him just before they hit the ground, somehow managing to turn so that he lands on his side instead of his back and cracks his skull open on the hard surface, and Porthos angles himself so that he won’t come down right on top of him.

He meets the hard impact of the ground with a grunt; it reverberates inside him but it’s a welcoming feeling: one that he’s familiar with and that shakes some of the adrenaline off.

Unfastening the parachute from the harness, he gets up just as Aramis staggeringly rises to his feet, one arm shot out to the mountain wall for balance, and retches.

Parachute forgotten, Porthos strides over to him, something hot and thick churning in his stomach alongside the concern.

Aramis looks up as he approaches: face a sickly green color and eyes glazed but sparkling with half-hysterical mirth.

“Well, I must admit that went far better than I thought it would,” he quips, around a lopsided, somewhat shaky, grin.

“Are you alright?”

“I think Neil Peart has taken up residence inside my skull… but I’ll live.”

“Good.”

The word is barely out of Porthos’ mouth before he shoves Aramis against the mountain.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking!” he shouts, and it’s far too loud in the surrounding silence.

The fierceness of his outburst takes them both by surprise, and Aramis winces when his head makes contact with stone but Porthos is _furious;_ it pulsates in his veins like electricity, his muscles aching with the need to just _punch._

“Well…” Aramis begins, but Porthos interrupts him.

“You jumped out of a plane at 3 500 fucking feet _without a parachute!_ ” he hollers, and he can’t remember when he was last so angry. “What the hell did you even plan on _doing!_ ”

Aramis gives a small, cheeky smile and _winks._

“One problem at a time, Porthos.”

Porthos’ mind goes completely blank, and it’s all he can do to just stare at his friend: his friend who is squinting and who is most definitely concussed: who is grinning at him, almost unperturbed by the whole thing, even though he is several nuances paler than usual: who threw himself out of a fucking plane and who is a reckless, thoughtless, _complete fucking idiot._

Releasing his hold before he feels compelled to wipe the smirk on Aramis’ face off with his fist, Porthos takes a step back and releases a harsh breath.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Fucking unbelievable.”

Aramis at least has the grace to look apologetic, though still maddeningly untroubled.

“There was never any real danger, Porthos.”

Porthos blinks at him, stupefied by the unadulterated conviction in his voice.

“You couldn’t've known I’d reach you in time,” he eventually says.

Aramis gives a soft smile.

“That’s what faith is for, my friend.”

Porthos swears he could punch him, fuck, he should have let the bastard fucking _fall…_

Drawing a deep breath, he forces some of the tension out of his system. After all, if he’s being completely honest with himself, it’s not like he’s surprised.

Which, if he thinks about it, is probably worse.

He glances at his friend, who stands with his back against the mountain wall, eyes closed and breathing carefully controlled.

He frowns, concern dulling some of the anger.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Aramis’ lips twitch in a tired smile.

“Do not worry, my friend. It’s just a concussion. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Porthos turns away with a short nod: calmer, but still too wound-up to be in a forgiving mood.

“Right.”

Aramis sighs, frustration creeping into the sound.

_Serves the bastard fucking right._

“Porthos…”

“Save it,” Porthos grumbles. This is not a conversation he wants to have – not ever, if he’s got any say in it – and they need to leave, to contact Athos and get the fuck away from this shithole so he can hit the gym and punch a hole through the speedbag. “Just don’t fucking do it again.”

Aramis doesn’t say anything, which is probably for the best.

They both know he'd never be able to keep such a promise.

(Although Porthos is still angry, and more than a little exasperated by his friend’s complete and total lack of self-preservation, he stays close as they, after a brief consultation with the map, make their way to the location where Athos is most likely to have landed, and when Aramis begins to stumble – his head probably bothering him more than he’s willing to let on, the stubborn fucker – Porthos grips him by the arm and doesn't let go.

They both know he would never let Aramis fall.)


	2. What Is Mine I Give Freely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hope you're all ready for the next installment of our marksman's foolish adventures! I actually felt pretty bad for d'Artagnan, writing this... Mostly though, I just laughed at his predicament, lol!
> 
> !WARNING! There's some minor gore in this one, but it's nothing graphic. It all depends on how much of an imagination you have and how squeamish you are (tbh, I think you're fine). But, you know, I'm still putting it out there.
> 
> This second piece I'm dedicating to the lovely LadyCavil! I want to remember that we discussed, some time ago, our mutual disinterest in d'Artagnan (?). However, I still think you'll enjoy this one ;)

**~What Is Mine I Give Freely~**

By the time they've managed to shake off their attackers, even d'Artagnan can tell that it's bad.

Maybe not in an apocalyptic, directly life-threatening kind of way, but it's definitely an our-careers-might-be-over-and-Treville-will-most-definitely-have-our-asses kind of bad.

"Here, help me lie him down," Aramis breathes, shifting the body that has been more or less thrown over his shoulders for the last 3 miles.

D'Artagnan helps ease their Principal down on the sparse vegetation, a local politician they had been tasked to protect (the irony isn't lost on either of them.) He then leaves the man in Aramis' care while he half-crawls half-drags himself up the hill behind which they have taken cover, and that seems to be the border between dunes of sand in one direction, and untamed wilderness in the other.

The day is slowly turning towards afternoon but there's still plenty of light, and the location they've chosen allows them to gaze over miles of dry, untouched land, while at the same time remain fairly invisible. Releasing a slow breath, d'Artagnan briefly bows his head in relief; there are no signs of their pursuers. He takes another look just to be sure, but there's really not much he could miss from their vantage point, and so he skids down the sandy slope and back to the others.

"There's no sign of them," he informs, crouching down next to Aramis. "They must have finally given up."

"Let us hope they have," Aramis mumbles absently, using the tweezers from his IFAK to cut through the dark blue, way-beyond-their-paygrade suit of their charge. He removes the fabric, revealing the battered chest of their HVU, and d'Artagnan grimaces at the sight; he's seen enough to know that there's too much blood for this to be easy.

Normally, he would have expected something like this to happen – after all, they never did "easy" anyway; that was for other regiments, like the Red Guards – but this had really seemed like a normal, boring protection detail mission. Up until two hours ago, that is.

"How bad is it?" d'Artagnan asks, already dreading the answer.

Aramis is examining the wound, gloved hands tacky with blood.

"I'm fairly certain that all the pieces are out, but he's lost too much blood. Hand me my needle and thread, if you would."

D'Artagnan shuffles closer and reaches into Aramis' pocket, digging out the requested items.

"Threaded and ready," he quips a moment later, handing them to Aramis.

The sharpshooter nods his thanks. Just as he is about to start, he glances up, eyebrows knitted together in faint concern.

"How is your head?"

He's referring to the whack to the head that d'Artagnan took when the M72 LAW more or less blew up their Humvee, sending them rolling down a 9-yard slope. It's really quite a miracle that all they suffered were a few cuts and bruises.

"It hurts like a bitch," he answers truthfully, because he knows that when it comes to injuries, Aramis can see through all of them instantly. "But I'll live. No concussion, you said so yourself."

Aramis smirks and raises an eyebrow.

"And your shoulder?"

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, despite his head protesting the movement.

"It's _fine._ I just landed on it wrong; it didn't get squashed by the _car._ " He throws an uneasy glance down at the unconscious man beside them. "And I didn't get pierced by a piece of metal, either."

Aramis' eyes turn grim and he returns his attention to their HVU.

"Position yourself at his head," he instructs. "Monitor his breathing."

D'Artagnan doesn't usually think of himself as naïve – though he is young, he's been around long enough to know that the world isn't the forgiving, merciful place he thought it was as a kid – but since he joined the Musketeers and found his place with three of the regiment's top operatives, he's nearly come to idolize his fellow teammates and their abilities.

It soon becomes clear to him, though, that even Aramis' extraordinary skill with a needle won't be enough to fix this.

"He's hardly breathing, Aramis," d'Artagnan mumbles after a few minutes, as the marksman cuts the thread and removes the bloody gloves from his hands.

Aramis frowns down at the man. He looks indecisive for no more than two seconds, before reaching into his IFAK again, determination etched onto his features.

"He needs a blood transfusion," he states, as if to himself.

D'Artagnan huffs.

"Not to be pessimistic or anything, but you do know that there are no hospitals for at least 7 miles, right?"

"We don't need a hospital," Aramis says, looking triumphant as he takes out a small plastic bag containing a curled rubber tube and another, smaller one. He swiftly continues to untie the sash from his waist and fastens it around his upper right arm. "All we need is basic medical knowledge, the right equipment, and a donor."

He grins wickedly.

D'Artagnan blinks.

Surely he doesn't mean…?

"You can't be serious?" he eventually says, prepared for this to be another one of the "rites of passage" that the three of them – though mostly Aramis and Porthos – had put him through when he'd been new to the team.

"Don't worry, it's been tried and tested," Aramis assures him, producing two syringes and connecting them to opposite ends of the tube. "There are plenty of documented cases."

"Successful?" d'Artagnan asks disbelievingly. Nausea, which has little to do with his head, is welling up, and he's suddenly glad that he's already sitting down.

Aramis rolls his eyes but doesn't look up from cleaning the inside of his own elbow and that of their Principal with antiseptic rags.

"Yes," he confirms calmly, "it has been _successfully_ tried and tested. It's not unheard of within field medicine."

"I doubt it's recommended, either."

He can't help but to wince when Aramis injects the syringe into their Principal's arm and then tapes it stuck – the man doesn't even stir.

"How do you even know that you have the right blood type?" he asks, bile rising in his throat as Aramis fluidly proceeds to sticking the other needle into the inside of his elbow.

Needles don't usually bother him, but then this isn't exactly your annual flu shot.

"Because," the sharpshooter informs him, "I have the fortune of belonging to the 0,6 % of the population whose blood type is compatible with all other blood types."

D'Artagnan groans and vigorously shakes his head, instantly regretting the motion as it sends black dots into his vision.

"Aramis, this is insane!" he hisses and clutches his head, suddenly feeling angry without really knowing why. No, not angry, _afraid,_ because what the hell is he supposed to do if the rebels come back? There were at least _four_ of them and while he doesn't doubt his abilities, he is aware of their limits in his current condition, and knows that he wouldn't be able to protect their HVU _and_ Aramis on his own.

However, that doesn't scare him even remotely as much as the thought of Athos and Porthos not finding them in time.

"If we don't supply him with blood soon, he could go into hypovolemic shock. That can kill as easily as infection, and a lot quicker," Aramis explains patiently. "And I hardly need to remind you what's at stake here; if this man dies, the Democratic Party will have lost one of their most politically significant persons and the peace negotiations will be put on hold, maybe permanently. However, if you have any alternative ideas, then please, I'm open to suggestions."

D'Artagnan looks at him, opens his mouth, desperately _wants_ to say something, before closing it again.

Aramis gives a resigned little smile.

"That's what I thought. Now, help me get my legs up against the slope. It will increase the blood flow."

D'Artagnan begrudgingly does as he's told, pointedly not looking at the rapidly-turning-red tube. He sits down next to Aramis afterwards, his back against the sandy dune.

It's quiet; there is no birdsong, not even the wind makes a sound. The entire forest is silent.

In any other circumstance, d'Artagnan would have found it peaceful.

Staring forward, he asks quietly, "How long?"

He sees Aramis' head turn towards him from the corner of his eye.

"How long what?" he asks, and d'Artagnan releases a frustrated breath.

"How long before I have to start worrying about you dying from blood loss." When Aramis doesn't immediately answer, he continues, "I might not have as much medical experience as you, but I'm not stupid. And I'm not letting you bleed out for this guy, no matter his 'political significance'."

He glances down and says, only half-joking, "I'm pretty sure Porthos would have me flogged, if I did."

Aramis chuckles, his expression amused and a little wicked.

"We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

He soon turns serious though and, shifting his gaze towards the sky, he sighs.

"Half an hour won't cause any lasting damage," he answers, and d'Artagnan watches him closely. He seems to be telling the truth – although half an hour of emptying your body of blood sounds eerily long in d'Artagnan's opinion – but he learned early on that Aramis, while being an excellent caregiver to the rest of them, almost _always_ downplays his own condition. Porthos had once told him that, while he trusts Aramis with his life, trusting Aramis with his _own_ life is another matter entirely.

"When we approach forty-five minutes, I will start to fall unconscious."

A shudder makes its way through d'Artagnan's body, but he stays silent.

"And after that, well… _I_ will be the one needing a blood transfusion, which, all things considered, would be rather ironic." Glancing up, he adds with a wink, "Though I wouldn't worry; Porthos is as relentless as a bloodhound when any of us go missing, and Athos…" He smirks conspiratorially. "Athos would never admit to it, but he's just as bad."

D'Artagnan doesn't mention that Aramis is hardly one to judge, him being the biggest mother hen of all of them, but only nods and leans back. Sand finds its way in underneath his fatigues, but he's too weary to care.

"Does it hurt?" he asks after a while, curiosity growing now that the initial shock has settled. Although he's still not particularly pleased with their situation, he has resigned himself to the fact that it's out of his hands, and most likely their best option – crappy as it is.

He hears Aramis shake his head in the sand.

"It's the same thing as donating blood; although in a much larger scale and, admittedly, not as free of risk."

They stay like that for a while, just small-talking, and if d'Artagnan doesn't let his eyes stray downwards, he can almost convince himself that this is just another one of their many late stakeouts and that one of his brothers is not lying, actively _bleeding out,_ next to him.

It's close after his watch indicates that thirty minutes have passed when he hears the telltale sound of bodies moving through the dense area. Tensing, d'Artagnan warily stands and draws his gun. His head throbs with the sudden change of altitude.

Giving Aramis a brief glance, he mumbles, "Don't move."

Aramis raises an amused eyebrow at him, and d'Artagnan grimaces.

"You know what I mean. Just, stay awake."

Aramis withdraws his gun from its holster, eyes incredibly alert in spite of his increasing pallor. He nods, and although d'Artagnan doesn't feel comfortable leaving his friend in such a vulnerable position, he likes the idea of being ambushed _again_ even less.

He stays close to the sandy hill, moving carefully so as not to draw attention to himself, should their visitors be closer than he anticipates. His heart is hammering in his chest, blood pulsating in his ears and throat with the familiar rush of adrenaline and he deliberately has to focus on taking slow, steady breaths so the sounds don't override his actual hearing.

The steps are moving towards him, and he frowns from where he stands behind a mostly dead tree; it's too cautious, too swift, for it to be their previous attackers – they went for a much more _explosive_ approach rather than a stealthy one. The first flicker of hope awakens in d'Artagnan's chest. With the footsteps growing louder, he peeks out from his hiding place, gun drawn and ready, and waits.

When, mere seconds later, a gloved hand appears through the foliage, followed by the rest of a very familiar figure, every muscle in d'Artagnan's body turns to water.

"Athos." He lowers his gun and steps forward, the relief almost dizzying. "Thank God."

He's fairly certain he's never in his life been this happy to see their team leader's impassive face and piercing blues.

"D'Artagnan," Athos greets, eyes raking over him in scrutiny. "Are you alright?"

Porthos' familiar bulk appears through the foliage behind him and D'Artagnan nods, a little too enthusiastically, and with the adrenaline leaving his body the world suddenly tilts.

"d'Artagnan."

He blinks his surroundings back into place and meets his mentor's steady gaze, belatedly acknowledging the hand on his arm.

"I'm alright," he quickly assures. "A bit banged up, but I'm fine."

Athos gives him another onceover and, apparently satisfied that he's telling the truth, nods.

"Aramis?" Porthos asks, already scanning the area for their fourth member.

Something must show on his face, because Porthos swears and stalks off into the direction where d'Artagnan came from. A nudge from Athos has him following, and he almost crashes into the big man's back when they pass the corner of the sand dune and Porthos suddenly stops.

It's an unsettling sight, even for d'Artagnan who knew what to expect, and he can only imagine what it must be like for the other two.

Aramis is lying on his back next to their charge with his eyes half-closed, legs elevated against the hill. The ground next to him is dark with blood, and although it's pretty clear it belongs to the unmoving body next to him, it still looks disconcerting.

D'Artagnan glances at his two newly arrived teammates, expecting them to look at least somewhat shocked at the morbid display, but they look more haunted and sad than anything else.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, just to break the tense silence. "I know I should have stopped him, it was a stupid and risky and completely _insane_ thing to do but our HVU was bleeding out and becoming anemic and could be hypovolemic, which, apparently, can be life-threatening, and we didn't know what blood type he had and we couldn't just _let him die_ and Aramis is O- so there really weren't that many options and…"

"d'Artagnan," Athos interrupts, switching on his radio. "Breathe."

d'Artagnan takes a breath, feeling dizzy by the stream of words that made its way out his mouth.

Porthos has already made his way over to their fourth member, kneeling down next to him and putting a hand to his cheek, concern evident in every movement.

Aramis' eyelids flutter at the touch. He blinks a few times, smirks when his eyes land of Porthos.

"Took you long enough," he quips cheekily, squeezing the offered hand with his left one, gun placed on his stomach.

Porthos sighs, fondness and exasperation vying across his features. "Fuck's sake, Aramis…"

"We really need to work on your bedside manner, my friend."

"What are you doing?"

Aramis raises an eyebrow at him.

"My job," he answers, as if it's obvious. He gives a lazy nod in the direction of the unconscious man at his right. "Saving him."

"I wasn't aware that unapproved blood transfusions were part of the job description," Athos says wryly, his report of their coordinates now given and his hand releasing its hold on his Motorola.

Aramis just waves at him sluggishly.

"Aramis…" Porthos sighs, and pins the sharpshooter with a look that is at the same time gentle and firm. "'S not the same."

"It's not the same," Aramis agrees, voice soft but equally as steadfast. " _He_ will live."

D'Artagnan glances between the three of them, knows that there's something that he's missing, but he doesn't ask, realizing that right now, he doesn't really care _what_ they're talking about as long as they can all get the hell away from this place.

Porthos sighs again and Athos mumbles, without taking his eyes off of his two long-time teammates, "How long has it been?"

D'Artagnan glances at his watch.

"35 minutes."

Athos nods, his mouth a thin line as he moves over to position himself beside their charge. Removing a glove, he rests his hand against the man's clammy skin; it's clear that he's far from out of the woods, but to d'Artagnan he looks, if not better than at least not _worse_ than he did twenty minutes ago.

"5 minutes, then I'm calling it," Athos says. He raises a hand without even looking up when Aramis opens his mouth to argue. "That's an order, Aramis. I'm not having this discussion with you." He doesn't say _'again',_ but it's there all the same. "The MEDEVAC should be here any minute, and then the EMTs can take over."

Aramis seems pleased with that and gives a tired nod.

"Hey," Porthos says, shaking him gently when he closes his eyes. "No napping for you just yet."

Aramis blinks one eye open.

"Wasn't planning to." He says it good-humoredly, but he really is starting to look very pale and d'Artagnan glances at his watch again.

_Forty-five minutes, then_ I _will be the one needing a blood transfusion._

He shudders, and forces his gaze, and mind, away and up towards the horizon, willing help to arrive.

~Les Inséparables~

Minutes later he stands beside Athos, watching as Porthos glares his way onto the chopper with Aramis; the sniper had objected to needing a stretcher, declaring that he was perfectly capable of walking. Porthos had looked at him like he was insane, and Athos had turned to the waiting medics and said, "This man is delirious. I would advise against taking anything that comes out of his mouth seriously." Aramis had scowled at him but didn't seem too eager to argue the point, since it was soon proved that he couldn't even work himself up into a sitting position without assistance. Still, it was a testament to how lousy he was feeling that he'd given in so quickly.

"He's done this before," d'Artagnan says now, voice soft.

It's not a question.

Athos gives one, barely perceivable nod, eyes still on the other half of their team.

"Once."

He doesn't elaborate, and d'Artagnan doesn't ask.

Suddenly, it doesn't seem all that important.

(They insist Aramis remain in recovery for the night, just to make sure that everything is in working order; the sniper, unsurprisingly, checks himself out as soon as Dr. Lemay announces he hasn't gone and contracted any unknown germs. Neither Athos nor Porthos are particularly pleased, but Lemay only shrugs with a helpless smile – though d'Artagnan suspects that he's secretly amused. Technically, there's no reason Aramis can't recover in his own bed, the Doc says, and, at his words, Aramis grins triumphantly at them. Add to that the fact that Treville chose that exact moment to arrive, declaring that their HVU seemed to be on the mend, and Aramis positively beams.

Still, the walk to his and Porthos' tent, though not great in distance, is slow, and the effort of it is clear in the way Aramis trembles. Athos and Porthos don't say anything, just silently flank their brother on either side, their hands shooting out to steady him whenever he strays too far off course. D'Artagnan hurries ahead, pulling the flap to the tent apart and throwing the covers of Aramis' cot aside, placing a cup of water next to it – Lemay had made it clear that Aramis needed to replenish his fluids – and is in the middle of covering the ground with spare blankets when the others appear. He lifts his head and catches Athos' gaze. Holding it, he gives a minute nod and receives one, equally as infinitesimal, in return.

It goes without saying that they're all staying the night.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized there are quite a few military terms in this one, so I decided to make a short little list for those interested:
> 
> HVU = High-value unit (person or object that a military group is tasked with procuring)  
> Principal - Basically same as HVU, but only applies to humans  
> IFAK = Individual First Aid Kit (standard issue for all soldiers in the American army)  
> M72 LAW = M72 Light Anti-tank Weapon System (a kind of rocket launcher)  
> Motorola - Standard issue radio  
> MEDEVAC = Medical Evacuation (of wounded - usually by helicopter. Difference with CASEVAC/Dust Off: a MEDEVAC is equipped with medical supplies, whereas a Dust Off normally isn't. However, it takes longer for it to arrive to the scene of battle - since the equipment needs to be loaded etc.)


	3. At least My Intentions Were Good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In celebration of The Musketeers Season 3 FINALLY airing in the UK, I offer you this third installment! I'll be watching with you guys tonight (but on the internet) and I seriously CAN'T. WAIT!
> 
> This one is for Nomina! Remember our little chat about Aramis following Athos' orders? Well, this is what happens when he doesn't ;)
> 
> Thank you to all and everyone of you who have decided to join me on this ride. Your reviews and enthusiasm is my main source of happiness, at the moment, and I hope that you will all continue to enjoy this 'verse.

“Everyone in position?” Athos murmurs, eyes locked on the worn-down storage building a few feet away. Three different voices crackle the affirmative over the comm., and Athos tightens his grip on his gun. He looks to his right and Aramis gives a small nod: brown eyes sharp and sparkling.

“On my signal, gentlemen.”

The morning is silent, the air crisp from last night’s rain, the awakening sun bathing the pale sky and desert lands in a warm yellow. It’s the calm before the storm; they’re all feeling it.

Athos takes a deep breath – exhales.

“Execute!”

They move like a well-oiled machine; the two teams in the back and the one at the side door breaching the facility at the same time as Athos, Aramis and their accompanying team break through the front.

It’s dark inside, and it soon becomes quite clear that their adversaries were not expecting an attack; most of them are lying sprawled over the couch or on the floor, a few passed out over a bar counter in what is supposedly the kitchen area. The air is pungent from what is an unmistakable mixture of marijuana, sweat, and urine.

A dark head whips lazily in their direction and the gleam of teeth is visible even in the sparse light.

“Benvenidos, caballeros,” the man greets, gangly-looking and probably no more than in his mid-twenties. _“¿Can I offer you a taste? I promise you that you will find nothing of higher quality.”_

 _“Tempting, but I’m afraid we will have to decline,”_ Aramis answers swiftly. _“Where are the hostages?”_

Athos leaves Aramis to do the talking and lets his own eyes wander. The American ambassador and her family are the real reason they’re here – Athos honestly doesn’t care about the drugs, and if this particular band of misfits hadn’t decided to kidnap _an American ambassador,_ they probably would have been able to continue their little business in peace for years to come.

Greed makes people so tediously stupid.

The man tuts, seemingly unperturbed by the gun Aramis is leveling directly at his chest. _“That’s the problem with you_ federales, _you have no appreciation for fun.”_

Someone screams then, and all hell breaks loose after that. It’s pretty clear which team will come out victorious; still, the young men aren’t about to simply hand over the hostages and lose their tickets to more drugs.

Sometime during the ruckus, the one who’d done the talking slips away and out a back door. Athos is engaging two loons – who are either too far gone to realize that they have no chance, or just too high to care – but Aramis’ eyes track their escapee like a predator watching an herbivore.

“Aramis,” Athos hisses, tries to catch the sharpshooter’s eye and simultaneously sidestep a hurling knife, " _wait._ " He doesn’t doubt Aramis’ CC skills – sparring with Porthos is enough to ensure that you will be prepared to handle most anything in a hand-to-hand combat – but they have no way of knowing how many more there are, and just because these guys seem to be heavily under the influence, it doesn’t mean that they are harmless.

However, as is often the case with Aramis, it’s like talking to deaf ears. The ex-Ranger has already darted after their foe, and Athos has no choice but to dismiss his friend’s folly in order to disarm his two adversaries.

The fight – if you could deign to call it such – is so easy it’s laughable. Mere minutes later, all of the suspects have been apprehended and the hostages located and secured. Frederic and Devon are leading three cuffed junkies out between them; Léon is half-dragging a fourth who’s too high to fully comprehend what is happening. Porthos and two other musketeers have already left the building with the four American hostages: all rattled but, luckily, unharmed.

_That only left…_

There’s the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired from the back of the building.

Athos swears and draws his .45, thinking, _if, for once, the idiot would just stop and_ listen…

Motioning to Léon – who has dropped his charge to the floor; the man just lies and emits small gurgling, snickering sounds, obviously not going anywhere – to take the right side, they move towards the door leading to the back.

They don’t even make it to the door before it opens and Aramis appears, right hand hanging by his side and holding his Beretta, front covered in a sickening amount of blood.

Athos stiffens.

“Aramis…”

“It’s not mine,” Aramis interrupts quickly.

When Athos just keeps looking at him pointedly, he rolls his eyes.

“I mean it, this time. It really isn’t mine.”

Athos gives him a quick onceover and, satisfied that, for once, his reckless teammate seems to actually be telling the truth, he glances behind him. “I would ask if you got him, but I’d say the state of your clothes is proof enough.”

“Mm…” Aramis looks down. He lets out a soft snicker. “They really are quite a mess, aren’t they?”

It’s not really _what_ he says as opposed to _how_ he says it that has a wave of foreboding roll over Athos. He narrows his eyes and steps closer to the former Ranger, really looks at him.

He is fidgeting – which, in itself, isn’t unusual; Aramis positively abhors being still – his pupils blown wide, with only a sliver of the irises, making his eyes seem almost entirely black, and he looks far too hot for the chilly morning.

“Aramis… are you sure that you are alright?” he asks slowly, deliberately keeping his voice devoid of the dread curling in his stomach.

Aramis’ eyes find his and, although they sparkle with laughter, he says, very seriously, “It’s possible that we, eh… might, have a problem.”

Athos inhales slowly.

“What kind of…” and that’s when he notices Aramis’ left hand.

Horror rushes over him like a torrent of ice.

“Aramis…” Athos says, forcibly calm as he reaches out and extracts the object from his teammate’s clammy hand. “What is this?”

Aramis drags his eyes to it with obvious effort, the item lying small and innocent-looking in Athos’ open palm.

“It’s a syringe,” he answers. He looks back at Athos, and actually _giggles._ “Surely you know that.”

Athos pushes down his mounting impatience – knows that, really, it’s concern in disguise – and turns to Léon, who’s still standing next to him, eyeing their fellow musketeer with obvious trepidation.

“Get Porthos,” he orders, because he somehow just knows that Aramis won’t make this easy for him. As Léon scurries off, he returns his attention to their ex-Ranger.

“What happened?”

But Aramis, unsurprisingly, isn’t listening to him.

“You know something that I’ve never quite understood?” he says, his too large eyes raking over the dumpsite they’re standing in like it’s an opportunity gone to waste. “There’s such huge amounts of money in drug trafficking, I mean, it’s ridiculous really, and still these guys insist on hiding out in dumps such as this – I know the whole concept of ‘economizing’ is probably alien to them, but you’d think that at least they could decorate a little–”

“Aramis.”

“Some paint on the walls, maybe install a latrine that actually _works_ – the smell in here is _revolting_ – and a few plants just beside the bar counter would make _such_ a difference – I’m thinking maybe figs–”

“Aramis,” Athos tries again, but it’s like someone has turned on a switch, his teammate moving around the room, grinning and fidgeting and turning in all and every direction. 

“No, you’re right, too tricky to care for – what about azaleas? But then this is Mexico; it’s hardly the right meteorology for them to truly prosper – and peace lilies would really just send the wrong message to their contractors, wouldn’t it? Aloe though, or maybe bamboo–”

_“Aramis.”_

Again.

Deaf ears.

Athos sighs, can already feel a headache blooming because seriously, fucking _seriously_ this was supposed to be _easy;_ it fucking _was_ easy; it’s just a bunch of _college kids!_

He has started to consider using his stun gun on their third member in earnest by the time Porthos arrives, and between Aramis’ obvious, and extremely out-of-place elation, and whatever expression Athos is wearing – he suspects it’s something along the lines of, _no-amount-of-wine-in-the-world-is-enough-to-justify-this-shit_ – it takes the big man no more than two seconds to realize something’s wrong.

“Everythin’ okay?” he asks, eyeing Athos and Aramis in turn.

Athos opens his mouth but Aramis beats him to it.

“’Okay’?” he says, grinning that insane grin again like Porthos had just told some really fine joke. “Porthos, everything is _fantastic._ Except for the lacking décor in this place, it’s unacceptable I mean _look_ at it! It has such potential if you’d just…”

And he’s off on yet another lecture on interior design. Athos honestly has no idea where it’s even coming from.

Porthos looks at their rambling sniper with a mixture of concern and confused amusement. When it becomes clear that he won’t get anything more sensible out of the man, he turns to Athos, the question clear on his face.

Athos releases a long breath, feels twenty years older with it.

“Though I doubt that it’s from marijuana, I believe that, considering our location, the most appropriate term would be that he is ‘flying the Mexican Airlines’.”

Porthos’ eyes widen in disbelief.

“He’s _stoned?”_

“Estoy bien volado,” Aramis chimes in helpfully, and somehow manages to grin even wider. Athos’ own cheeks physically _hurt_ in sympathy. “High as a kite! … I probably should be a bit more worried about that, shouldn’t I? I mean, this is pretty serious…”

“Cocaine, most likely,” Athos says with a sigh, eyeing the syringe in his hand with disgust.

“Shit,” Porthos says. All traces of amusement have left his eyes. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Aramis disobeyed an order, as per usual,” Athos replies dryly.

Said man abruptly stops in his fidgeting. Turning around, he waves his gun in their direction and, although there’s nothing malicious about it, Athos somewhat belatedly realizes that removing the weapon from _the half-raving professional killer_ should probably have been his first priority.

“Hey, that’s hardly fair, I’m an _exemplary_ operator. And besides, how can you be so sure that I even heard the order, what with everything that was going on, hm?”

Porthos snorts.

“’Cause you’ve got ears like a friggin’ bat.”

Athos sighs, for what feels like the fiftieth time in the last fifteen minutes.

“Technically, you never asked _how_ it happened,” Aramis continues. “And, either way, I’d think it was fairly obvious; he jumped me, stabbed the needle in my shoulder, and I shot him in return. Speaking of which, someone should probably take care of his body. Catch!”

He throws his .45 in their general direction and, though he’s completely taken off guard, Porthos somehow manages to get hold of it before it hits the ground.

“Aramis!” Athos can’t help but admonish.

Aramis waves away his concern absent-mindedly, staring at the bar counter: hands on his hips and forehead creased in concentration. “Athos, please, it’s not loaded; I’m not _that_ irresponsible.”

“You’re baked,” Porthos says, as if he still can’t really believe it. “And how the hell did you even _get_ jumped, anyway?”

It’s a valid question; while every soldier learns to develop some kind of “sixth sense,” Aramis has the hypervigilance and reflexes of a meerkat.

Aramis, though, just shrugs, and tips his head in thought.

“It might have had something to do with the bear of a man that greeted me in the back…”

“Wait, there were more than one?”

Aramis gives Athos an incredulous look.

“Yes…? Haven’t you been listening? He seemed about as surprised to see me as I was to see him! That’s when the first one attacked me, you see?”

No, Athos doesn’t _see_ at all. He really, honest-to-God doesn’t.

Aramis shrugs again, oblivious to his brother’s plight. “Oh well, that hardly matters now. What does, however, is the state of this place, so if you both could just help me move this counter…”

Porthos looks at Athos, and no words are needed. They move in unison, taking hold of one arm respectively, and start half-dragging, half-leading their third from there, ignoring his insistent objections that if they just _moved_ that counter, it would positively _transform_ the room.

(Later, when they’re at the medical bay, Porthos will lie down next to Aramis on the thin make-do bed, one arm around his midsection and a hand carding through his hair, mumbling softly in his ear as their friend suffers through the cramps of withdrawal. Athos gently removes the hand Aramis has stuffed in his mouth to quell the moans and sobs that he can’t hold in, and takes it in his own hand. The death grip he gets in return will leave him firing with his left hand for days.

But in the grand scheme of things, that hardly seems to matter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the course of writing this, I never could decide what to think about it... In the end, I decided that I liked it, if only so I could move on. A few (non-necessary) notes for this one:
> 
> Benvenidos, caballeros - Welcome, gentlemen
> 
> Estoy bien volado - Lit. I'm very high (note: this is, supposedly, a Chilean expression and Aramis, in this 'verse, happens to be from Santiago. Tbh though, I'm not sure about this expression, so if anyone has some insight, please let me know!)
> 
> Also, this is the last complete piece I have within this storyline. There are a few more ideas lying around, but unfortunately I can't tell you when I'll be able to post them. Feel free to leave prompts; although I can't promise you I'll make use of them, they might awaken my muse and inspiration.
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> The "One problem at a time" comment is actually taken from the book Inside Delta Force by Eric Haney, wherein one of his fellow operators, only half-awake, throws himself out of a burning plane (which is still on the ground). Haney later ascertains that the soldier in question thought that they were already airborne (being slightly disoriented by suddenly wakening in Dante's inferno and all) and so he asked what the man had planned on doing when he'd gotten out of the plane that was, presumably, several hundred feet above ground, without sporting a parachute. The man answered, "One problem at a time, Sarge. One problem at a time."
> 
> I have no idea who this dude is/was. But man do I respect him.
> 
> This might also be a good a time as any to mention that most of the going-ons and expressions/jargongs in this 'verse is based on that book by Eric Haney, Inside Delta Force. For those of you interested in military biographies, I heartily recommend this one!


End file.
